VIITYPHOON
Intoa singularly restricted and indifferent environment Ida Zobel was born. Her mother, a severe, prim German woman, died when she was only three, leaving her to the care of her father and his sister, both extremely reserved and orderly persons. Later, after Ida had reached the age of ten, William Zobel took unto himself a second wife, who resembled Zobel and his first wife in their respect for labor and order.
Both were at odds with the brash gayety and looseness of the American world in which they found themselves. Being narrow, sober, workaday Germans, they were annoyed by the groups of restless, seeking, eager, and as Zobel saw it, rather scandalous young men and women who paraded the neighborhood streets of an evening without a single thought apparently other than pleasure. And these young scamps and their girl friends who sped about in automobiles. The loose, indifferent parents. The loose, free ways of all these children. What was to become of such a nation? Were not the daily newspapers, which he would scarcely tolerate in his home longer, full of these wretched doings? The pictures of almost naked women that filled them all! Jazz! Petting parties! High school boys with flasks on their hips! Girls with skirts to their knees, rolled-down stockings, rolled-down neck-bands, bare arms, bobbed hair, no decent concealing underwear!
“What—a daughter of his grow up like that! Be permitted to join in this prancing route to perdition! Never!” And in consequence, the strictest of rules with regard toIda’s upbringing. Her hair was to grow its natural length, of course. Her lips and cheeks were never to know the blush of false, suggestive paint. Plain dresses. Plain underwear and stockings and shoes and hats. No crazy, idiotic finery, but substantial, respectable clothing. Work at home and, when not otherwise employed with her studies at school, in the small paint and color store which her father owned in the immediate vicinity of their home. And last, but not least, a schooling of such proper and definite character as would serve to keep her mind from the innumerable current follies which were apparently pulling at the foundations of decent society.
For this purpose Zobel chose a private and somewhat religious school conducted by an aged German spinster of the name of Elizabeth Hohstauffer, who had succeeded after years and years of teaching in impressing her merits as a mentor on perhaps as many as a hundred German families of the area. No contact with the careless and shameless public school here. And once the child had been inducted into that, there followed a series of daily inquiries and directions intended to guide her in the path she was to follow.
“Hurry! You have only ten minutes now in which to get to school. There is no time to lose!”... “How comes it that you are five minutes late to-night? What were you doing?”... “Your teacher made you stay? You had to stop and look for a blank book?”... “Why didn’t you come home first and let me look for it with you afterwards?” (It was her stepmother talking.) “You know your father doesn’t want you to stay after school.”... “And just what were you doing on Warren Avenue between twelve and one to-day? Your father said you were with some girl.”... “Vilma Balet? And who is Vilma Balet? Where does she live? And how long has it been that you have been going with her? Why is it that you have not mentioned her before? You know what your father’s rule is. And now I shall have to tell him. He will be angry.You must obey his rules. You are by no means old enough to decide for yourself. You have heard him say that.”
Notwithstanding all this, Ida, though none too daring or aggressive mentally, was being imaginatively drawn to the very gayeties and pleasures that require courage and daring. She lived in a mental world made up of the bright lights of Warren Avenue, of which she caught an occasional glimpse. The numerous cars speeding by! The movies and her favorite photographs of actors and actresses, some of the mannerisms of whom the girls imitated at school. The voices, the laughter of the boys and girls as they walked to and fro along the commonplace thoroughfare with its street-cars and endless stores side by side! And what triumphs or prospective joys they planned and palavered over as they strolled along in their easy manner—arms linked and bodies swaying—up the street and around the corner and back into the main street again, gazing at their graceful ankles and bodies in the mirrors and windows as they passed, or casting shy glances at the boys.
But as for Ida—despite her budding sensitivity—at ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen—there was no escape from the severe regimen she was compelled to follow. Breakfast at seven-thirty sharp because the store had to be opened by her father at eight; luncheon at twelve-thirty, on the dot to satisfy her father; dinner invariably at six-thirty, because there were many things commercial and social which fell upon the shoulders of William Zobel at night. And between whiles, from four to six on weekdays and later from seven to ten at night, as well as all day Saturdays, store duty in her father’s store. No parties, no welcome home atmosphere for the friends of her choice. Those she really liked were always picked to pieces by her stepmother, and of course this somewhat influenced the opinion of her father. It was common gossip of the neighborhood that her parents were very strict and that they permitted her scarcely any liberties. A trip to a movie, the choice of which was properly supervised by her parents; an occasional ride in an automobile with herparents, since by the time she had attained her fifteenth year he had purchased one of the cheaper cars.
But all the time the rout of youthful life before her eyes. And in so far as her home life and the emotional significance of her parents were concerned, a sort of depressing grayness. For William Zobel, with his gray-blue eyes gleaming behind gilt-rimmed glasses, was scarcely the person to whom a girl of Ida’s temperament would be drawn. Nor was her stepmother, with her long, narrow face, brown eyes and black hair. Indeed, Zobel was a father who by the very solemnity of his demeanor, as well as the soberness and practicability of his thoughts and rules, was constantly evoking a sense of dictatorship which was by no means conducive to sympathetic approach. To be sure, there were greetings, acknowledgments, respectful and careful explanations as to this, that and the other. Occasionally they would go to a friend’s house or a public restaurant, but there existed no understanding on the part of either Zobel or his wife—he never having wanted a daughter of his own and she not being particularly drawn to the child of another—of the growing problems of adolescence that might be confronting her, and hence none of that possible harmony and enlightenment which might have endeared each to the other.
Instead, repression, and even fear at times, which in the course of years took on an aspect of careful courtesy supplemented by accurate obedience. But within herself a growing sense of her own increasing charm, which, in her father’s eyes, if not in her stepmother’s, seemed to be identified always with danger—either present or prospective. Her very light and silky hair—light, grayish-blue eyes—a rounded and intriguing figure which even the other girls at Miss Hohstauffer’s school noticed and commented on. And in addition a small straight nose and a full and yet small and almost pouting mouth and rounded chin. Had she not a mirror and were there not boys from her seventh year on who looked at her and sought to attract her attention? Her father could see this as well as his second wife. But shedared not loiter here and there as others did, for those vigorous, bantering, seeking, intriguing contacts. She must hurry home—to store or house duty or more study in such fields as Zobel and his wife thought best for her. If it was to run errands she was always timed to the minute.
And yet, in spite of all these precautions, the swift telegraphy of eyes and blood. The haunting, seeking moods of youth, which speaks a language of its own. In the drugstore at the corner of Warren and Tracy, but a half-block from her home, there was at one time in her twelfth year Lawrence Sullivan, a soda clerk. He seemed to her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. The dark, smooth hair lying glossed and parted above a perfect white forehead; slim, graceful hands—or so she thought—a care and smartness in the matter of dress which even the clothing of the scores of public school boys passing this way seemed scarcely to match. And such a way where girls were concerned—so smiling and at his ease. And always a word for them as they stopped in on their way home from school.
“Why, hello, Della! How’s Miss McGinnis to-day? I bet I know what you’re going to have. I think pretty blonde girls must like chocolate sundaes—they contrast with their complexions.” And then smiling serenely while Miss McGinnis panted and smiled: “A lot you know about what blonde girls like.”
And Ida Zobel, present on occasion by permission for a soda or a sundae, looking on and listening most eagerly. Such a handsome youth. All of sixteen. He would as yet pay no attention to so young a girl as she, of course, but when she was older! Would she be as pretty as this Miss McGinnis? Could she be as assured? How wonderful to be attractive to such a youth! And what would he say to her, if he said anything at all? And what would she say in return? Many times she imitated these girls mentally and held imaginary conversations with herself. Yes, despite this passive admiration, Mr. Sullivan went the way of all soda-clerks,changing eventually to another job in another neighborhood.
But in the course of time there were others who took her eye and for a time held her mind—around whose differing charms she erected fancies which had nothing to do with reality. One of these was Merton Webster, the brisk, showy, vain and none too ambitious son of a local state senator, who lived in the same block she did and attended Watkins High School, which she was not permitted to attend. So handsome was he—so debonair. “Hello, kid! Gee, you look cute, all right. One of these days I’ll take you to a dance if you want to go.” Yet, because of her years and the strict family espionage, blushes, her head down, but a smile none the less.
And she was troubled by thoughts of him until Walter Stour, whose father conducted a realty and insurance business only a little way west of her father’s store, took her attention—a year later. Walter was a tall, fair complexioned youth, with gay eyes and a big, laughing mouth, who, occasionally with Merton Webster, Lawrence Cross, a grocer’s son, Sven Volberg, the dry-cleaner’s son, and some others, hung about the favorite moving-picture theatre or the drugstore on the main corner and flirted with the girls as they passed by. As restricted as she was still, because of her trips to and fro between home and school and her service as a clerk in her father’s store, she was not unfamiliar with these several figures or their names. They came into the store occasionally and even commented on her looks: “Oh, getting to be a pretty girl, isn’t she?” Whereupon she would flush with excitement and nervously busy herself about filling a customer’s order.
It was through Etelka Shomel, the daughter of a German neighbor who was also a friend of William Zobel, that she learned much of these boys and girls. Her father thought Etelka a safe character for Ida to chum with, chiefly on account of her unattractiveness. But through her, as well as their joint pilgrimages here and there, she came to hear muchgossip about the doings of these same. Walter Stour, whom she now greatly admired, was going with a girl by the name of Edna Strong, who was the daughter of a milk-dealer. Stour’s father was not as stingy as some fathers. He had a good car and occasionally let his son use it. Stour often took Edna and some of her friends to boathouse resorts on the Little Shark River. A girl friend of Etelka’s told her what a wonderful mimic and dancer he was. She had been on a party with him. And, of course, Ida lent a willing and eager ear to all this. Oh, the gayety of such a life! Its wonders! Beauties!
And then one night, as Ida was coming around the corner to go to her father’s store at about seven-thirty and Stour was on his favorite corner with several other boys, he called: “I know who’s a sweet kid, but her daddy won’t let her look at a guy. Will he?” This last aimed directly at her as she passed, while she, knowing full well who was meant and how true it was, hurried on all the faster. If her father had heard that! Oh, my! But it thrilled her as she walked. “Sweet kid.” “Sweet kid”—kept ringing in her ears.
And then at last, in her sixteenth year, Edward Hauptwanger moved into a large house in Grey Street. His father, Jacob Hauptwanger, was a well-to-do coal-dealer who had recently purchased a yard on the Absecon. It was about this time that Ida became keenly aware that her normal girlhood, with its so necessary social contacts, was being set at naught and that she was being completely frustrated by the stern and repressive attitude of her father and stepmother. The wonder and pain, for instance, of spring and summer evenings just then, when she would stand gazing at the moon above her own commonplace home—shining down into the narrow, commonplace garden at the back, where still were tulips, hyacinths, honeysuckle and roses. And the stars shining above Warren Avenue, where were the cars, the crowds, the moving-picture theatres and restaurants which held such charm for her. There was a kind of madness,an ache, in it all. Oh, for pleasure—pleasure! To go, run, dance, play, kiss with some one—almost any one, really, if he were only young and handsome. Was she going to know no one—no one? And, worse, the young men of the neighborhood calling to her as she passed: “Oh, look who’s here! Shame her daddy won’t let her out.” “Why don’t you bob your hair, Ida? You’d be cute.” Even though she was out of school now, she was clerking as before and dressing as before. No short skirts, bobbed hair, rolled-down stockings, rouge.
But with the arrival of this Edward Hauptwanger, there came a change. For here was a youth of definite and drastic impulses—a beau, a fighter, a fellow of infinite guile where girls of all sorts were concerned—and, too, a youth of taste in the matter of dress and manner—one who stood out as a kind of hero to the type of youthful male companions with whom he chose to associate. Did he not live in a really large, separate house on Grey Street? And were not his father’s coal-pockets and trucks conspicuously labelled outstanding features of the district? And, in addition, Hauptwanger, owing to the foolish and doting favor of his mother (by no means shared by his father), always supplied with pocket money sufficient to meet all required expenditures of such a world as this. The shows to which he could take his “flames”; the restaurants, downtown as well as here. And the boat club on the Little Shark which at once became a rendezvous of his. He had a canoe of his own, so it was said. He was an expert swimmer and diver. He was allowed the use of his father’s car and would often gather up his friends on a Saturday or Sunday and go to the boat club.
More interesting still, after nearly a year’s residence here, in which he had had time to establish himself socially after this fashion, he had his first sight of Ida Zobel passing one evening from her home to the store. Her youthful if repressed beauty was at its zenith. And some remarks concerning her and her restricted life by youths who had neitherthe skill nor the daring to invade it at once set him thinking. She was beautiful, you bet! Hauptwanger, because of a certain adventurous fighting strain in his blood, was at once intrigued by the difficulties which thus so definitely set this girl apart. “These old-fashioned, dictatorial Germans! And not a fellow in the neighborhood to step up and do anything about it! Well, whaddya know?”
And forthwith an intensive study of the situation as well as of the sensitive, alluring Ida Zobel. And with the result that he was soon finding himself irresistibly attracted to her. That pretty face! That graceful, rounded figure! Those large, blue-gray, shy and evasive eyes! Yet with yearning in them, too.
And in consequence various brazen parades past the very paint store of Zobel, with the fair Ida within. And this despite the fact that Zobel himself was there—morning, noon and night—bent over his cash register or his books or doing up something for a customer. And Ida, by reason of her repressed desires and sudden strong consciousness of his interest in her as thus expressed, more and more attracted to him. And he, because of this or his own interest, coming to note the hours when she was most likely to be alone. These were, as a rule, Wednesdays and Fridays, when because of a singing society as well as a German social and commercial club her father was absent from eight-thirty on. And although occasionally assisted by her stepmother she was there alone on these nights.
And so a campaign which was to break the spell which held the sleeping beauty. At first, however, only a smile in the direction of Ida whenever he passed or she passed him, together with boasts to his friends to the effect that he would “win that kid yet, wait and see.” And then, one evening, in the absence of Zobel, a visit to the store. She was behind the counter and between the business of waiting on customers was dreaming as usual of the life outside. For during the past few weeks she had become most sharply conscious of the smiling interest of Hauptwanger. Hisstraight, lithe body—his quick, aggressive manner—his assertive, seeking eyes! Oh, my! Like the others who had gone before him and who had attracted her emotional interest, he was exactly of that fastidious, self-assured and self-admiring type toward which one so shy as herself would yearn. No hesitancy on his part. Even for this occasion he had scarcely troubled to think of a story. What difference? Any old story would do. He wanted to see some paints. They might be going to repaint the house soon—and in the meantime he could engage her in conversation, and if the “old man” came back, well, he would talk paints to him.
And so, on this particularly warm and enticing night in May, he walked briskly in, a new gray suit, light tan fedora hat and tan shoes and tie completing an ensemble which won the admiration of the neighborhood. “Oh, hello. Pretty tough to have to work inside on a night like this, ain’t it?” (A most irresistible smile going with this.) “I want to see some paints—the colors of ’em, I mean. The old man is thinking of repainting the house.”
And at once Ida, excited and flushing to the roots of her hair, turning to look for a color card—as much to conceal her flushing face as anything else. And yet intrigued as much as she was affrighted. The daring of him! Suppose her father should return—or her stepmother enter? Still, wasn’t he as much of a customer as any one else—although she well knew by his manner that it was not paint that had brought him. For over the way, as she herself could and did see, were three of his admiring companions ranged in a row to watch him, the while he leaned genially and familiarly against the counter and continued: “Gee, I’ve seen you often enough, going back and forth between your school and this store and your home. I’ve been around here nearly a year now, but I’ve never seen you around much with the rest of the girls. Too bad! Otherwise we mighta met. I’ve met all the rest of ’em so far,” and at the same time by troubling to touch his tie he managedto bring into action one hand on which was an opal ring, his wrist smartly framed in a striped pink cuff. “I heard your father wouldn’t even let you go to Warren High. Pretty strict, eh?” And he beamed into the blue-gray eyes of the budding girl before him, noted the rounded pink cheeks, the full mouth, the silky hair, the while she trembled and thrilled.
“Yes, he is pretty strict.”
“Still, you can’t just go nowhere all the time, can you?” And by now the color card, taken into his own hand, was lying flat on the counter. “You gotta have a little fun once in a while, eh? If I’da thought you’da stood for it, I’da introduced myself before this. My father has the big coal-dock down here on the river. He knows your father, I’m sure. I gotta car, or at least my dad has, and that’s as good as mine. Do you think your father’d letcha take a run out in the country some Saturday or Sunday—down to Little Shark River, say, or Peck’s Beach? Lots of the fellows and girls from around here go down there.”
By now it was obvious that Hauptwanger was achieving a conquest of sorts and his companions over the way were abandoning their advantageous position, no longer hopefully interested by the possibility of defeat. But the nervous Ida, intrigued though terrified, was thinking how wonderful it was to at last interest so handsome a youth as this. Even though her father might not approve, still might not all that be overcome by such a gallant as this? But her hair was not bobbed, her skirts not short, her lips not rouged. Could it really be that he was attracted by her physical charms? His dark brown and yet hard and eager eyes—his handsome hands. The smart way in which he dressed. She was becoming conscious of her severely plain blue dress with white trimmings, her unmodish slippers and stockings. At the same time she found herself most definitely replying: “Oh, now, I couldn’t ever do anything like that, you know. You see, my father doesn’t know you. He wouldn’tlet me go with any one he doesn’t know or to whom I haven’t been properly introduced. You know how it is.”
“Well, couldn’t I introduce myself then? My father knows your father, I’m sure. I could just tell him that I want to call on you, couldn’t I? I’m not afraid of him, and there’s sure no harm in that, is there?”
“Well, that might be all right, only he’s very strict—and he might not want me to go, anyhow.”
“Oh, pshaw! But you would like to go, wouldn’t you? Or to a picture show? He couldn’t kick against that, could he?”
He looked her in the eye, smiling, and in doing so drew the lids of his own eyes together in a sensuous, intriguing way which he had found effective with others. And in the budding Ida were born impulses of which she had no consciousness and over which she had no control. She merely looked at him weakly. The wonder of him! The beauty of love! Her desire toward him! And so finding heart to say: “No, maybe not. I don’t know. You see I’ve never had a beau yet.”
She looked at him in such a way as to convince him of his conquest. “Easy! A cinch!” was his thought. “Nothing to it at all.” He would see Zobel and get his permission or meet her clandestinely. Gee, a father like that had no right to keep his daughter from having any fun at all. These narrow, hard-boiled German parents—they ought to be shown—awakened—made to come to life.
And so, within two days brazenly presenting himself to Zobel in his store in order to test whether he could not induce him to accept him as presumably at least a candidate for his daughter’s favor. Supposing the affair did not prove as appealing as he thought, he could drop the contact, couldn’t he? Hadn’t he dropped others? Zobel knew of his father, of course. And while listening to Hauptwanger’s brisk and confident explanation he was quite consciously evaluating the smart suit, new tan shoes and gathering, all in all, a favorable impression.
“You say you spoke to her already?”
“I asked her if I might call on her, yes, sir.”
“Uh-uh! When was this?”
“Just two days ago. In the evening here.”
“Uh-uh!”
At the same time a certain nervous, critical attitude toward everything, which had produced many fine lines about the eyes and above the nose of Mr. Zobel, again taking hold of him: “Well, well—this is something I will have to talk over with my daughter. I must see about this. I am very careful of my daughter and who she goes with, you know.” Nevertheless, he was thinking of the many coal trucks delivering coal in the neighborhood, the German name of this youth and his probable German and hence conservative upbringing. “I will let you know about it later. You come in some other time.”
And so later a conference with his daughter, resulting finally in the conclusion that it might be advisable for her to have at least one male contact. For she was sixteen years old and up to the present time he had been pretty strict with her. Perhaps she was over the worst period. At any rate, most other girls of her age were permitted to go out some. At least one beau of the right kind might be essential, and somehow he liked this youth who had approached him in this frank, fearless manner.
And so, for the time being, a call permitted once or twice a week, with Hauptwanger from the first dreaming most daring and aggressive dreams. And after a time, having conducted himself most circumspectly, it followed that an evening at one of the neighborhood picture houses was suggested and achieved. And once this was accomplished it became a regularity for him to spend either Wednesday or Friday evening with Ida, it depending on her work in the store. Later, his courage and skill never deserting him, a suggestion to Mr. Zobel that he permit Ida to go out with him on a Saturday afternoon to visit Peck’s Beach nine miles below the city, on the Little Shark. Itwas very nice there, and a popular Saturday and Sunday resort for most of the residents of this area. After a time, having by degrees gained the complete confidence of Zobel, he was granted permission to take Ida to one or another of the theatres downtown, or to a restaurant, or to the house of a boy friend who had a sister and who lived in the next block.
Despite his stern, infiltrating supervision, Zobel could not prevent the progressive familiarities based on youth, desire, romance. For with Edward Hauptwanger, to contact was to intrigue and eventually demand and compel. And so by degrees hand pressures, stolen or enforced kisses. Yet, none the less, Ida, still fully dominated by the mood and conviction of her father, persisting in a nervous evasiveness which was all too trying to her lover.
“Ah, you don’t know my father. No, I couldn’t do that. No, I can’t stay out so late. Oh, no—I wouldn’t dare go there—I wouldn’t dare to. I don’t know what he would do to me.”
This, or such as this, to all of his overtures which hinted at later hours, a trip to that mysterious and fascinating boat club on the Little Shark twenty-five miles out, where, as he so glibly explained, were to be enjoyed dancing, swimming, boating, music, feasting. But as Ida who had never done any of these things soon discovered for herself, this would require an unheard-of period of time—from noon until midnight—or later Saturday, whereas her father had fixed the hour of eleven-thirty for her return to the parental roof.
“Ah, don’t you want to have any fun at all? Gee! He don’t want you to do a thing and you let him get away with it. Look at all the other girls and fellows around here. There’s not one that’s as scary as you are. Besides, what harm is there? Supposing we don’t get back on time? Couldn’t we say the car broke down? He couldn’t say anything to that. Besides, no one punches a time clock any more.” But Ida nervous and still resisting, and Hauptwanger,because of this very resistance, determined to win her to his mood and to outwit her father at the same time.
And then the lure of summer nights—Corybantic—dithyrambic—with kisses, kisses, kisses—under the shadow of the trees in King Lake Park, or in one of the little boats of its lake which nosed the roots of those same trees on the shore. And with the sensitive and sensual, and yet restricted and inexperienced Ida, growing more and more lost in the spell which youth, summer, love, had generated. The beauty of the face of this, her grand cavalier! His clothes, his brisk, athletic energy and daring! And with him perpetually twittering of this and that, here and there, that if she only truly loved him and had the nerve, what wouldn’t they do? All the pleasures of the world before them, really. And then at last, on this same lake—with her lying in his arms—himself attempting familiarities which scarcely seemed possible in her dreams before this, and which caused her to jump up and demand to be put ashore, the while he merely laughed.
“Oh, what had he done that was so terrible? Say, did she really care for him? Didn’t she? Then, why so uppish? Why cry? Oh, gee, this was a scream, this was. Oh, all right, if that was the way she was going to feel about it.” And once ashore, walking briskly off in the gayest and most self-sufficient manner while she, alone and tortured by her sudden ejection from paradise, slipped home and into her room, there to bury her face in her pillow and to whisper to it and herself of the danger—almost the horror—that had befallen her. Yet in her eyes and mind the while the perfect Hauptwanger. And in her heart his face, hands, hair. His daring. His kisses. And so brooding even here and now as to the wisdom of her course—her anger—and in a dreary and hopeless mood even, dragging herself to her father’s store the next day, merely to wait and dream that he was not as evil as he had seemed—that he could not have seriously contemplated the familiaritiesthat he had attempted; that he had been merely obsessed, bewitched, as she herself had been.
Oh, love, love! Edward! Edward! Edward! Oh, he would not, could not remain away. She must see him—give him a chance to explain. She must make him understand that it was not want of love but fear of life—her father, everything, everybody—that kept her so sensitive, aloof, remote.
And Hauptwanger himself, for all of his bravado and craft, now nervous lest he had been too hasty. For, after all, what a beauty! The lure! He couldn’t let her go this way. It was a little too delicious and wonderful to have her so infatuated—and with a little more attention, who knew? And so conspicuously placing himself where she must pass on her way home in the evening, at the corner of Warren and High—yet with no sign on his part of seeing her. And Ida, with yearning and white-faced misery, seeing him as she passed. Monday night! Tuesday night! And worse, to see him pass the store early Wednesday evening without so much as turning his head. And then the next day a note handed the negro errand boy of her father’s store to be given to him later, about seven, at the corner where he would most surely be.
And then later, with the same Edward taking it most casually and grandly and reading it. So she had been compelled to write him, had she? Oh, these dames! Yet with a definite thrill from the contents for all of that, for it read: “Oh, Edward, darling, you can’t be so cruel to me. How can you? I love you so. You didn’t mean what you said. Tell me you didn’t. I didn’t. Oh, please come to the house at eight. I want to see you.”
And Edward Hauptwanger, quite triumphant now, saying to the messenger before four cronies who knew of his present pursuit of Ida: “Oh, that’s all right. Just tell her I’ll be over after a while.” And then as eight o’clock neared, ambling off in the direction of the Zobel home. And as heleft one of his companions remarking: “Say, whaddya know? He’s got that Zobel girl on the run now. She’s writing him notes now. Didn’t ya see the coon bring it up? Don’t it beat hell?” And the others as enviously, amazedly and contemptuously inquiring: “Whaddya know?”
And so, under June trees in King Lake Park, once more another conference. “Oh, darling, how could you treat me so, how could you? Oh, my dear, dear darling.” And he replying—“Oh, sure, sure, it was all right, only what do you think I’m made of? Say, have a heart, I’m human, ain’t I? I’ve got some feelings same as anybody else. Ain’t I crazy about you and ain’t you crazy about me? Well, then—besides—well, say....” A long pharisaical and deluding argument as one might guess, with all the miseries and difficulties of restrained and evaded desire most artfully suggested—yet with no harm meant, of course. Oh, no.
But again, on her part, the old foolish, terrorized love plea. And the firm assurance on his part that if anything went wrong—why, of course. But why worry about that now? Gee, she was the only girl he knew who worried about anything like that. And finally a rendezvous at Little Shark River, with his father’s car as the conveyance. And later others and others. And she—because of her weak, fearsome yielding in the first instance—and then her terrorized contemplation of possible consequences in the second—clinging to him in all too eager and hence cloying fashion. She was his now—all his. Oh, he would never, never desert her, now, would he?
But he, once satisfied—his restless and overweening ego comforted by another victory—turning with a hectic and chronic, and for him uncontrollable sense of satiety, as well as fear of complications and burden—to other phases of beauty—other fields and relationships where there was no such danger. For after all—one more girl. One more experience. And not so greatly different from others that had gone before it. And this in the face of the magic of her meaning before capitulation. He did not understandit. He could not. He did not even trouble to think about it much. But so it was. And with no present consciousness or fear of being involved in any early and unsatisfactory complications which might require marriage—on the contrary a distinct and definite opposition to any such complication at any time, anywhere.
Yet, at last, after many, many perfect hours throughout July and August, the fatal complaint. There was something wrong, she feared. She had such strange moods—such strange spells, pains, fears—recently. Could there be? Did he think there could be any danger? She had done what he said. Oh, if there was! What was she to do then? Would he marry her? He must, really, then. There was no other way. Her father—his fierce anger. Her own terrors. She could not live at home any more. Could they not—would they not—be married now if anything were wrong? He had said he would if anything like this ever happened, had he not?
And Hauptwanger, in the face of this, suffering a nervous and cold reaction. Marriage! The mere thought of such a thing! Impossible! His father! His hitherto free roving life! His future! Besides, how did she know? How could she be sure? And supposing she was! Other girls got out of such things without much trouble. Why not she? And had he not taken all the usual customary and necessary precautions that he knew! She was too easily frightened—too uninformed—not daring enough. He knew of lots of cases where girls got through situations of this kind with ease. He would see about something first.
But conjoined with this, as she herself could see and feel, a sudden definite coolness never before sensed or witnessed by her, which was based on his firm determination not to pursue this threatening relationship any longer, seeing that to do so meant only to emphasize responsibility. And in addition, a keen desire to stay away. Were there not other girls? A whole world full. And only recently had he not been intrigued by one who was moreaware of the free, smart ways of pleasure and not so likely ever to prove a burden?
But on the other hand, in the face of a father as strict as Zobel himself and a mother who believed in his goodness, his course was not absolutely clear either. And so from this hour on an attempt to extricate himself as speedily and as gracefully as possible from this threatening position. But before this a serious, if irritated, effort on his part to find a remedy among his friends of the boating club and street corners. But with the result merely of a vivid advertisement of the fact that this gay and successful adventure of his had now resulted most unsuccessfully for Ida. And thereafter hints and nods and nudges among themselves whenever she chanced to pass. And Ida, because of fear of scandal, staying in as much as she could these days, or when she did appear trying to avoid Warren Avenue at High as much as possible. For by now she was truly terrified, seized indeed with the most weakening emotions based on the stern and unrelenting countenance of her father which loomed so threateningly beyond the immediate future. “If me no ifs,” and “but me no buts.” Oh, how to do? For throughout the trial of this useless remedy, there had been nothing to do but wait. And the waiting ended in nothing—only greater horrors. And between all this, and enforced work at the store and enforced duties at home, efforts to see her beloved—who, because of new and more urgent duties, was finding it harder and harder to meet her anywhere or at any time.
“But you must see how it is with me, don’t you, dear? I can’t go on like this, can’t you see that? You said you’d marry me, didn’t you? And look at all the time that’s gone already. Oh, I’m almost mad. You must do something. You must! You must! If father should find out, what in the world would I do? What would he do to me, and to you, too? Can’t you see how bad it is?”
Yet in the face of this tortured plea on the part of this frantic and still love-sick girl, a calm on the part of Hauptwangerthat expressed not indifference but cruelty. She be damned! He would not. He could not. He must save himself now at whatever cost. And so a determined attempt not to see her any more at all—never to speak to her openly anywhere—or to admit any responsibility as to all this. Yet, because of her inexperience, youth and faith thus far, no willingness on her part to believe this. It could not be. She had not even so much as sensed it before. Yet his continuing indifference which could only be interpreted one way. The absences—the excuses! And then one day, when pains and terror seized on her and thereby drove her to him, he looking her calmly and brazenly in the eye and announcing: “But I didn’t really promise to marry you, and you know I didn’t. Besides, I’m not to blame any more than you are. You don’t suppose that just because you don’t know how to take care of yourself I’ve got to marry you now, do you?”
His eyes now for the first time were truly hard. His intention to end this by one fell blow was very definite. And the blow was sufficient at the moment to half unseat the romantic and all but febrile reason of this girl, who up to this hour had believed so foolishly in love. Why, how could this be? The horror of it! The implied disaster. And then half in understanding, half in befuddled unreason, exclaiming: “But, Ed! Ed! You can’t mean that. Why, it isn’t true! You know it isn’t! You promised. You swore. You know I never wanted to—until you made me. Why ... oh, what’ll I do now? My father! I don’t know what he’ll do to me or to you either. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” And frantically, and without sufficient balance to warrant the name of reason, beginning to wring her hands and twist and sway in a kind of physical as well as mental agony.
At this Hauptwanger, more determined than ever to frighten her away from him once and for all, if possible, exclaiming: “Oh, cut that stuff! I never said I’d marry you, and you know it!” and turning on his heel and leavingher to rejoin the chattering group of youths on the corner, with whom, before her arrival, he had been talking. And as much to sustain himself in this fatal decision as well as to carry it off before them all, adding: “Gee, these skirts! It does beat hell, don’t it?”
Yet now a little fearsome, if vain and contemptuous, for the situation was beginning to take on a gloomy look. But just the same when Johnny Martin, one of his companions and another aspirant for street corner and Lothario honors, remarked: “I saw her here last night lookin’ for you, Ed. Better look out. One of these skirts is likely to do somepin to you one of these days”—he calmly extracted a cigarette from a silver cigarette case and without a look in the direction of the half-swooning Ida, said: “Is that so? Well, maybe. We’ll see first.” And then with a nonchalant nod in the direction of Ida, who, too tortured to even retreat, was standing quite still, exclaimed: “Gee, these Germans! She’s got an old man that wouldn’t ever let her find out anything and now because she thinks there’s something wrong with her she blames me.” And just then, another intimate approaching, and with news of two girls who were to meet them somewhere later, exclaiming: “Hello, Skate! Everything set? All right, then. We might as well go along. S’long, fellas.” And stepping briskly and vigorously away.
But the stricken and shaken Ida still loitered under the already partially denuded September trees. And with the speeding street and auto cars with their horns and bells and the chattering voices and shuffling feet of pedestrians and the blazing evening lights making a kind of fanfare of color and sound. Was it cold? Or was it only herself who was numb and cold? He would not marry her! He had never said he would! How could he say that now? And her father to deal with—and her physical condition to be considered!
As she stood there without moving, there flashed before her a complete panorama of all the paths and benches ofKing Lake Park—the little boats that slipped here and there under the trees at night in the summertime—a boy and a girl—a boy and a girl—a boy and a girl—to each boat. And the oars dragging most inconsequentially—and infatuated heads together—infatuated hearts beating ecstatically—suffocatingly strong. Yet now—after so many kisses and promises, the lie given to her dreams, her words—his words on which her words had been based—the lie given to kisses—hours, days, weeks, months of unspeakable bliss—the lie given to her own security and hopes, forever. Oh, it would be best to die—it would—it would.
And then a slow and dragging return to her room, where because of the absence of her father and stepmother she managed to slip into her bed and lie there, thinking. But with a kind of fever, alternating with chills—and both shot through with most menacing pains due to this most astounding revelation. And with a sudden and keener volume of resentment than she had ever known gathering in her brain. The cruelty! The cruelty! And the falsehood! He had not only lied but insulted her as well. He who only five months before had sought her so eagerly with his eyes and intriguing smile. The liar! The brute! The monster! Yet linked and interwoven with such thoughts as these, a lacerating desire not to believe them—to turn back a month—two—three—to find in his eyes somewhere a trace of something that would gainsay it all. Oh, Ed! Ed!
And so the night going—and the dawn coming. A horrible lacerating day. And after that other days. And with no one to talk to—no one. If only she could tell her stepmother all. And so other days and nights—all alone. And with blazing, searing, whirling, disordered thoughts in unbroken procession stalking her like demons. The outside world in case she were to be thrust into it! Her own unfamiliarity and hence fear of it! Those chattering, gaping youths on the corners—the girls she knew—their thoughts, since they must all soon know. Her lonelinesswithout love. These and a hundred related thoughts dancing a fantastic, macabre mental dance before her.
But even so, within her own brain the persistent and growing illusion that all she had heard from him was not true—a chimera—and so for the time being at least continued faith in the value of pleading. Her wonderful lover. It must be that still some understanding could be reached. Yet with growing evidence that by no plea or plaint was he to be restored to his former attitude. For, in answer to notes, waiting at the corners, at the end of the street which led down to his father’s coal-dock, in the vicinity of his home—silence, evasions, or direct insults, and sneers, even.
“What’s the big idea, following me around, anyhow? You think I haven’t anything else to do but listen to you? Say, I told you in the first place I couldn’t marry, didn’t I? And now because you think there’s something wrong with you, you want to make me responsible. Well, I’m not the only fellow in this neighborhood. And everybody knows that.”
He paused there, because as he saw this last declaration had awakened in her a latent strength and determination never previously shown in any way. The horror of that to her, as he could see. The whiteness of her face afterwards and on the instant. The blazing electric points within the pupils of her eyes. “That’s a lie, and you know it! It’s not true! Oh, how terrible! And for you to say that to me! I see it all now. You’re just a sneak and a coward. You were just fooling with me all the time, then! You never intended to marry me, and now because you’re afraid you think you can get out of it that way—by trying to blame it on some one else. You coward! Oh, aren’t you the small one, though! And after all the things you said to me—the promises! As though I even thought of any one else in my life! You dare to say that to me, when you know so well!”
Her face was still lily white. And her hands. Her eyesflashed with transcendent and yet helpless and defeated misery. And yet, despite her rage—in the center of this very misery—love itself—strong, vital, burning love—the very core of it. But so tortured that already it was beginning to drive the tears to her eyes.
And he knowing so thoroughly that this love was still there, now instantly seizing on these latest truthful words of hers as an insult—something on which to base an assumed grievance.
“Is that so? A coward, eh? Well, let’s see what you draw down for that, you little dumb-bell.” And so turning on his heel—the strongest instinct in him—his own social salvation in this immediate petty neighborhood at the present time uppermost in his mind. And without a look behind.
But Ida, her fear and terror at its height, calling: “Ed! Ed! You come back here! Don’t you dare to leave me like this! I won’t stand for it. I tell you, I won’t! You come back here now! Do you hear me?” And seeing that he continued on briskly and indifferently, running after him, unbelievably tense and a little beside herself—almost mentally unaccountable for the moment. And he, seeing her thus and amazed and troubled by this new turn his problem had taken, turning abruptly with: “Say! You cut out o’ this now before I do something to you, do you hear? I’m not the one to let you pull this stuff on me. You got yourself into this and now you can get yourself out of it. Beat it before I do something to you, do you hear?” And now he drew nearer—and with such a threatening and savage look in his eyes that for the first time in all her contact with him Ida grew fearful of him. That angry, sullen face. Those fierce, cruel, savage eyes. Was it really true that in addition to all the rest he would really do her physical harm? Then she had not understood him at all, ever. And so pausing and standing quite still, that same fear of physical force that had kept her in subjection to her father overawing her here. At the same time, Hauptwanger,noting the effect of his glowering rage, now added: “Don’t come near me any more, do you hear? If you do, you’re goin’ to get something you’re not going to like. I’m through, and I’m through for good, see.”
Once more he turned and strode away, this time toward the central business district of the High and Warren Avenue region—the while Ida, too shaken by this newest development to quite grasp the full measure of her own necessity or courage, stood there. The horror of it! The disgrace! The shame! For now, surely, tragedy was upon her!
For the time being, in order to save herself from too much publicity, she began to move on—walk—only slowly and with whirling, staggering thoughts that caused her to all but lurch. And so, shaking and pale, she made her way once more to her home, where she stole into her room unnoticed. Yet, now, too tortured to cry but thinking grimly—fiercely at moments—at other times most weakly and feebly even—on all that had so recently occurred.
Her father! Her stepmother! If he—she—they should come to know! But no—something else must happen before ever that should be allowed to happen. She must leave—or—or, better yet—maybe drown herself—make way with herself in some way—or—
In the garret of this home, to which as a child on certain days she had frequently resorted to play, was an old wire clothes-line on which was hung an occasional wash. And now—might not that—in the face of absolute fiasco here—might not that—she had read of ending one’s life in that manner. And it was so unlikely that any one would trouble to look there—until—until—well—
But would she? Could she? This strange budding of life that she sensed—feared. Was it fair to it? Herself? To life that had given it to her? And when she desired so to live? And when he owed her something—at least help to her and her—her—her—No, she could not—would not think of that yet, especially when to die this way would be but toclear the way to easier and happier conquests for him. Never! Never! She would kill him first—and then herself. Or expose him and so herself—and then—and then—
But again her father! Her stepmother! The disgrace! And so—
In her father’s desk at the store was a revolver—a large, firm, squarish mechanism which, as she had heard him say, fired eight shots. It was so heavy, so blue, so cold. She had seen it, touched it, lifted it once—but with a kind of terror, really. It was always so identified with death—anger—not life—But now—supposing—supposing, if she desired to punish Edward and herself—or just herself alone. But no, that was not the way. What was the way, anyhow? What was the way?
And so now brooding in a tortured and half-demented way until her father, noting her mental state, inquired solemnly as to what had come over her of late. Had she had a quarrel with Hauptwanger? He had not seen him about recently. Was she ill in any way? Her appetite had certainly fallen off. She ate scarcely anything. But receiving a prompt “No” to both inquiries he remained curious but inclined to suspend further inquiry for the time being. There was something, of course, but no doubt it would soon come out.
But now—in the face of this—of course there must be action—decision. And so, in view of the thoughts as to self-destruction and the revolver, a decision to try the effect of a physical threat upon Hauptwanger. She would just frighten him. She might even point the gun at him—and see what he would do then. Of course, she could not kill him—she knew that. But supposing—supposing—one aimed—but not at him, really—and—and—(but, oh no!) a spit of fire, a puff of smoke, a deadly bullet—into his heart—into hers afterward, of course. No, no! For then what? Where?
A dozen, a score, of times in less than two days sheapproached the drawer that held the revolver and looked at it—finally lifting it up but with no thought of doing more than just that at the moment. It was so heavy, so cold, so blue. The very weight and meaning of it terrorized her, although at last—after the twentieth attempt—she was able to fit it into her bosom in such a way that it lay quite firm and still. The horror of it—cold against her breast, where so often during the summer his head had lain.
And then one afternoon, when she could scarcely endure the strain longer—her father demanding: “What is the matter with you, anyhow? Do you know what you’re doing half the time? Is there anything wrong between you and that beau of yours? I see he doesn’t come around any more. It is time that you either married or had nothing more to do with him, anyway. I don’t want any silly nonsense between you and him, you know.” And this effected the very decision which she had most dreaded. Now ... now ... she must act. This evening—at least she must see him again and tell him that she was going to see his father and reveal all—furthermore, that if he did not marry her she would kill him and herself. Show him the gun, maybe, and frighten him with it—if she could—but at any rate make a last plea as well as a threat. If only—if only he would listen this time—not turn on her—become frightened, maybe, and help her,—not curse—or drive her away.
There was the coal-yard of his father that was at the end of an inlet giving into the river. Or his own home. She might go first to the coal office. He would be sure to be leaving there at half past five, or at six he would be nearing his home. At seven or half past departing from that again very likely to see—to see—whom? But best—best to go to the coal office first. He would be coming from there alone. It would be the quickest.
And Hauptwanger coming out of the coal office on this particular evening in the mood and with the air of one with whom all was well. But in the windy dusk of this Novemberevening, arc lights blazing in the distance, the sound of distant cars, distant life, the wind whipping crisp leaves along the ground—the figure of a girl—a familiar cape about her shoulders, suddenly emerging from behind a pile of brick he was accustomed to pass.
“Ed! I want to talk to you a minute.”
“You again! What the hell did I tell you? I ain’t got no time to talk to you, and I won’t! What did I....”
“Now listen, Ed, stop that, now! I’m desperate.I’m desperate, Ed, do you hear? Can’t you see?” Her voice was staccato—almost shrill and yet mournful, too. “I’ve come to tell you that you’ve got to marry me now.You’ve gotto—do you hear?” She was fumbling at her breast where lay that heavy blue thing—no longer so cold as when she had placed it there. The handle was upward. She must draw it now—show it—or hold it under her cloak ready so that at the right moment she could show it—and make him understand that unless he did something.... But her hand shaking so that she could scarcely hold it. It was so heavy—so terrible. She could scarcely hear herself adding: “Otherwise, I’m going to your father and mine, now. My father may do something terrible to me but he’ll do more to you. And so will your father when he knows.... But, anyway....” She was about to add: “You’ve got to marry me, and right away too, or, or, I’m going to kill you and myself, that’s all—” and then to produce the revolver, and wave it before him in a threatening dramatic manner.
But before that the uncalculated and non-understanding fury of Hauptwanger. “Well, of all the nerve! Say, cut this out, will ya? Who do you think you are? What did I tell you? Go to my father, if you want to. Go to yours! Who’s afraid? Do you think they’re going to believe a —— like you? I never had anything to do with you, and that’s that!” And then in his anger giving her a push—as much to overawe her as anything.
But then, in spite of her desire not to give way, fury, blindness, pain,—whirling, fiery sparks, such as never in all her life before had she seen—and executing strange, rhythmic, convoluting orbits in her brain—swift, eccentric, red and yet beautiful orbits. And in the center of them the face of Hauptwanger—her beloved—but not as it was now—oh, no—but rather haloed by a strange white light—as it was under the trees in the spring. And herself turning, and in spite of the push, jumping before him.
“You will marry me, Ed, you will! You will! You see this? You will marry me!”
And then, as much to her astonishment as to his—yet with no particular terror to either of them—the thing spitting flame—making a loud noise—jumping almost out of her hand—so much so that before she could turn it away again there was another report—another flash of red in the dusk. And then Hauptwanger, too astonished quite for words at the moment, exclaiming: “Jesus! What are you....” And then, because of a sharp pain in his chest, putting his hand there and adding: “Oh, Christ! I’m shot!” and falling forward to one side of her....
And then herself—those same whirling red sparks in her brain, saying: “Now, now—I must kill myself, too. I must. I must. I must run somewhere and turn this on myself,” only quite unable to lift it at the moment—and because of some one—a man—approaching—a voice—footsteps, running—herself beginning to run—for some tree—some wall—some gate or doorway where she might stop and fire on herself. But a voice: “Hey! Stop that girl!” “Murder!” And another voice from somewhere else: “Hey! Murder! Stop that girl!” And footsteps, hard, quick ones, immediately behind her. And a hand grabbing hers in which was still the pistol, wildly and yet unwittingly held. And as the other hand wrenched at her hand—“Gimme that gun!” And then a strong youth whom she had never seen before—and yet not unlike Eddie either—turning her about—restraining her— “Say, you! What thedevil is this, anyhow? Come back here. You can’t get away with this.”
And yet at the same time not unfriendly eyes looking into hers, strong hands holding her, but not too roughly, and herself exclaiming: “Oh, let me go! Let me go! I want to die, too, I tell you! Let me go!” And sobbing great, dry, shaking sobs.
But after that—and all so quickly—crowds—crowds—men and women, boys and girls, and finally policemen gathering about her, each with the rules of his training firmly in mind to get as much general information as possible; to see that the wounded man was hurried to a hospital, the girl to a precinct police station; the names and addresses of various witnesses secured. But with the lorn Ida in a state of collapse—seated upon a doorstep in a yard surrounded by a pushing crowd, while voices rang in her ears: “Where? What? How?” “Sure, sure! Just now, right back there. Sure, they’re calling the ambulance.” “He’s done for, I guess. Twice in the breast. He can’t live.” “Gee! He’s all covered with blood.” “Sure, she did. With a revolver—a great big one. The cop’s got it. She was tryin’ to get away. Sure, Jimmie Allen caught her. He was just comin’ home.” “Yeah. She’s the daughter of old Zobel who keeps the paint store up here in Warren Avenue. I know her. An’ he’s the son of this Hauptwanger here who owns the coal-yard. I used to work for ’em. He lives up in Grey Street.”
But in the meantime young Hauptwanger unconscious and being transferred to an operating table at Mercy Hospital—his case pronounced hopeless—twenty-four hours of life at the very most. And his father and mother hearing the news and running there. And in the same period the tortured Ida transferred to Henderson Avenue Police Station, where in a rear inquisitorial chamber, entirely surrounded by policemen and detectives, she was questioned and requestioned. “Yah say yah seen this fella for the first time over a year ago? Is that right? He just moved into theneighborhood a little while before? Ain’t that so?” And the disconsolate, half-conscious Ida nodding her head. And outside a large, morbid, curious crowd. A beautiful girl! A young man dying! Some sex mystery here.
And in the interim Zobel himself and his wife, duly informed by a burly policeman, hurrying white-faced and strained to the station. My God! My God! And both rushing in breathless. And beads of perspiration on Zobel’s forehead and hands—and misery, misery eating at his vitals. What! His Ida had shot some one! Young Hauptwanger! And in the street, near his office! Murder! Great God! Then there was something between them. There was. There was. But might he not have known? Her white face. Her dreary, forsaken manner these later days. She had been betrayed. That was it. Devils! Devils! That was it! Eighty thousand hells! And after all he had said to her! And all his and his wife’s care of her! And now the neighbors! His business! The police! A public trial! Possibly a sentence—a death sentence! God in heaven! His own daughter, too! And that young scoundrel with his fine airs and fine clothes! Why—why was it that he had let her go with him in the first place? When he might have known—his daughter so inexperienced. “Where is she? My God! My God! This is terrible!”
But seeing her sitting there, white, doleful-looking, and looking up at him when spoken to with an almost meaningless look—a bloodless, smileless face—and saying: “Yes, I shot him. Yes. Yes. He wouldn’t marry me. He should have but he wouldn’t—and so—” And then at once crushing her hands in a sad, tortured way and crying: “Oh, Ed! Ed!” And Zobel exclaiming: “Ach, God! Ida! Ida! In God’s name, it can’t be so. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come to me? Am I not your father! I would have understood. Of course! Of course! I would have gone to his father—to him. But now—this—and now—” and he began to wring his own hands.
Yet the principal thought in his mind that now the world would know all— And after all his efforts. And beginning volubly to explain to the desk lieutenant and the detectives and policemen all that he knew. But the only thought afloat in the unhappy Ida’s brain, once she awakened again, was: Was this really her father? And was he talking so—of help? That she might have come to him—for what—when she had thought—that—that he would not be like that to her. But ... after a time again ... there was Ed to be thought of. That terrible scene. That terrible accident. She had not intended to do that—really. She had not. She had not. No! But was he really dead? Had she really killed him? That push—almost a blow it was—those words. But still— Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And then beginning to cry to herself, silently and deeply, while Zobel and his wife bent over her for the first time in true sympathy. The complications of life! The terrors! There was no peace for any one on this earth—no peace—no peace. All was madness, really, and sorrow. But they would stand by her now—yes, yes.
But then the reporters. A public furore fanned by the newspapers, with their men and women writers, pen and ink artists, photographers. Their editorials: “Beautiful girl of seventeen shoots lover, twenty-one. Fires two bullets into body of man she charges with refusing to keep faith. About to become a mother. Youth likely to die. Girl admits crime. Pleads to be left alone in misery. Parents of both in despair.” And then columns and columns, day after day—since on the following afternoon at three Hauptwanger did die—admitting that he had wronged her. And a coroner’s jury, called immediately afterwards, holding the girl for subsequent action by the Grand Jury, and without bail. Yet, because of her beauty and the “pathos” of the case—letters to the newspapers, from ministers, society men and women, politicians and the general public, demanding that this wronged girl about to become a mother, and who had committed no wrong other than that of lovingtoo well—if not wisely—be not severely dealt with—be forgiven—be admitted to bail. No jury anywhere would convict her. Not in America. Indeed, it would “go hard” with any jury that would attempt to “further punish” a girl who had already suffered so much. Plainly it was the duty of the judge in this case to admit this poor wronged soul to bail and the peace and quiet of some home or institution where her child might be born, especially since already a woman of extreme wealth and social position, deeply stirred by the pathos of this drama, had not only come forward to sympathize with this innocent victim of love and order and duty, but had offered any amount of bail that she might be released to the peace and quiet of her own home—there to await the outcome of her physical condition as well as the unavoidable prosecution which must fix her future.
And so, to her wonder and confusion, Ida finally released in the custody of this outwardly sober and yet inwardly emotional woman, who ever since the first day of her imprisonment in the central county jail had sought to ingratiate herself into her good graces and emotions—a woman middle-aged and plain but soft-voiced and kindly-mannered, who over and over repeated that she understood, that she also had suffered—that her heart had been torn, too—and that she, Ida, need never worry. And so Ida finally transferred (a bailed prisoner subject to return upon demand) to the wide acres and impressive chambers of a once country but now city residence, an integral part of the best residence area of the city. And there, to her astonishment and wonder—and this in spite of her despair—all needful equipment and service provided—a maid and servants, her food served to her in her room when she wished—silence or entertainment as she chose. And with her own parents allowed to visit her whenever she chose. Yet she was so uncomfortable in their presence always now. True, they were kind—gentle, whenever they came. They spoke of the different life that was to be after thisgreat crisis was truly past—the birth of the child, which was never other than indirectly referred to, or the trial, which was to follow later. There was to be a new store in a new neighborhood. The old one had already been offered for sale. And after that ... well, peace perhaps, or a better life. But even in her father’s eyes as he spoke could she not see the weight of care which he now shouldered? She had sinned! She had killed a man! And wrecked another family—the hearts of two other parents as well as her father’s own peace of mind and commercial and social well-being. And in all his charity, was there room for that? In the solemnity of his manner, as well as that of her stepmother, could she feel that there was?
Yet in the main, and because her mood and health seemed to require it, she was now left to contemplate the inexplicable chain of events which her primary desire for love had brought about. The almost amazing difference in the mental attitude of her parents toward her now and before this dreadful and unfortunate event in her life! So considerate and sympathetic now as to result in an offer of a happier home for her and her child in the future, whereas before all was—or as she sensed it—so threatening and desperate. The strange and to her inexplicable attitude of this woman even—so kind and generous—and this in the face of her sin and shame.
And yet, what peace or quiet could there be for her here or anywhere now? The terrible torture that had preceded that terrible accident! Her Edward’s cry! His death! And when she loved him so! Had! Did now! And yet by his dread perverseness, cruelty, brutality, he had taken himself from her. But still, still—now that he was gone—now that in dying, as she heard he had said, he had been “stuck on her” at first, that she had “set him crazy,” but that afterwards, because of his parents, as well as hers, he had decided that he would not marry her—she could not help but feel more kindly to him. He had been cruel. But had he not died? And at her hands. She had killed him—murdered him. Oh, yes, she had. Oh! Oh! Oh! Forin connection with the actual scene did she not recall some one crying that his shirt front had been all bloody. Oh! Oh! Oh! And in her heart, no doubt, when she had jumped in front of him there in the dusk had been rage—rage and hate even, too, for the moment. Oh, yes. But he had cried: “Oh, Christ! I’m shot!” (Her Edward’s cry.)
And so, even in the silence of these richly furnished rooms, with a servant coming to her call, hot, silent tears and deep, racking sobs—when no one was supposed to see or hear—and thoughts, thoughts, thoughts—sombre, bleak—as to her lack of sense, her lack of courage or will to end it all for herself on that dreadful evening when she so easily might have. And now here she had plighted her word that she would do nothing rash—would not attempt to take her life. But the future! The future! And what had she not seen since that dreadful night! Edward’s father and mother at the inquest! And how they had looked at her! Hauptwanger, senior—his strong, broad German face marked with a great anguish. And Mrs. Hauptwanger—small and all in black, and with great hollow rings under her eyes. And crying silently nearly all the time. And both had sworn that they knew nothing of Edward’s conduct, or of his definite interest in her. He was a headstrong, virile, restless boy. They had a hard time controlling him. And yet he had not been a bad boy, either—headstrong but willing to work—and gay—their only son.
At one point in these extensive grounds—entirely surrounded by Lombardy poplars now leafless—there stood a fountain drained of its water for the winter. But upon the pedestal, upon a bronze rock, at the foot of which washed bronze waves of the Rhine, a Rhine maiden of the blonde German Lorelei type, standing erect and a-dream, in youth, in love. And at her feet, on his knees, a German lover of the Ritter type—vigorous, uniformed, his fair blond head and face turned upward to the beauty about whose hips his arms were clasped—his look seeking, urgent. And upon his fair bronze hair, her right hand, the while she bent onhim a yearning, yielding glance. Oh, Edward! Oh, love! Spring! She must not come out here any more. And yet evening after evening in early December, once the first great gust of this terrific storm had subsided and she was seeing things in a less drastic light, she was accustomed to return to look at it. And sometimes, even in January, a new moon overhead would suggest King Lake Park! The little boats gliding here and there! She and Edward in one. Herself leaning back and dreaming as now—now—this figure of the girl on the rock was doing. And he—he—at her knees. To be sure, he had cursed her. He had said the indifferent, cruel words that had at last driven her to madness. But once he had loved her just this way. It was there, and only there, that she found spiritual comfort in her sorrow—
But then, in due course, the child—with all these thoughts, moods enveloping it. And after that the trial, with her prompt acquittal. A foreseen conclusion. And with loud public acclaim for that verdict also, since it was all for romance and drastic drama. And then the final leaving of these great rooms and this personal intimate affection that had been showered upon her. For after all the legal, if not the emotional problem, had now been solved. And since her father was not one who was poor or welcomed charity—a contemplated and finally accomplished return to a new world—the new home and store which had been established in a very different and remote part of the city. The child a boy. That was good, for eventually he could care for himself. He would not need her. The new paint shop was near another cross business street, near another moving-picture theatre. And boys and girls here as elsewhere—on the corners—going arm in arm—and herself again at home cooking, sewing, cleaning as before. And with Mrs. Zobel as reserved and dubious as before. For after all, had she not made a mess of her life, and for what? What now? Here forever as a fixture? And even though Zobel, in spite of his grimness, was becomingfond of the child. How wretched, how feeble life really was!
But far away King Lake Park and the old neighborhood. And thoughts that went back to it constantly. She had been so happy the summer before. And now this summer! And other summers to come—even though perhaps some time—once little Eric was grown—there might be some other lover—who would not mind— But, no—no, not that. Never! She did not want that. Could not—would not endure it.
And so at last of a Saturday afternoon, when she had the excuse of certain things needed for Eric, a trip to presumably the central business heart—whereas, in reality, it was to King Lake Park she was going. And once there—the little boats, the familiar paths—a certain nook under the overarching bushes and trees. She knew it so well. It was here that she had demanded to be let out in order that she might go home by herself—so shocked, so ashamed. Yet now seeking it.
The world does not understand such things. It is so busy with so many, many things.
And then dusk—though she should have been returning. Her boy! He would miss her! And then a little wind with a last faint russet glow in the west. And then stars! Quite all the world had gone to its dinner now. The park was all but empty. The water here was so still—so agate. (The world—the world—it will never understand, will it?) Where would Edward be? Would he be meeting her somewhere? Greeting her? Would he forgive,—when she told him all—could she find him, perchance? (The world—the busy, strident, indifferent, matter-of-fact world—how little it knows.)